


Once

by magickbeing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Implied Relationships, Obsession, One-Sided Relationship, Stalking, Unrequited Love, blurred consent, implied characters, possible non-consensual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickbeing/pseuds/magickbeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to turn once into again, then into now—he wanted to find her laughter uplifting and the brush of her fingertips in his hair soothing. He wanted to find her smile contagious and her silence troubling; he wanted to find himself in her embrace, in the wafting scent of her perfume and the press of her lips against his forehead.</p><p>He wanted her to want him.</p><p>And so he became what she wanted, what she already loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> Implied relationships/characters. Written with specific characters in mind, but can be openly interpreted. TW for possible non-consent.

He loved her once—of that he was certain. He had loved her when her eyes lit up, when a pale rose painted itself across her cheeks and her smile reminded him of moonlit conversations, of bright, rich wines with velvet undertones. He had loved her when sleep left its mark, a pillow’s imprint along her temple and mouth, and her hair was mussed, wild enough to reflect her spirit. He had loved her when nervous hands refused to still, when her anxiety trickled down and fizzled out, through her fingertips, in the smoothing of her blouse or the twirling of her hair. He had loved her when her eyes were downcast, body and mind closed in on itself, when her remorse was short and her temper shorter. He had loved her when tendrils of hair were wet and slick, flat against her forehead, and cool rain dripped from the tip of her nose. He had loved her when her voice was high, when her words were cutting and impulsive, sharp syllables that melted into a somber silence. He had loved her when her skin glistened, radiated in the dim lighting, when shadows accentuated her dimples and breathy whimpers escaped parted lips.

She loved him once—of that she was certain. She had loved him when his eyes were dark, wrought with mystery, and his smile refused to reach them, a sharp contrast to a laugh that skipped down each vertebrae. She had loved him when his footsteps danced through the dark, when the weight across his shoulders revealed itself in pursed lips or a puckered scowl and sleepless nights. She had loved him when his shoulders were tense, when splotches of color formed along the edge of his jaw and the curve of his face and his words were silent but screaming. She had loved him when his body was slick, flush against hers, and his eyes were black with ecstasy. She had loved him when his head was tossed back, throat exposed, and a throaty chuckle rumbled through his chest to spill over his lips and into the air. She had loved him when his touch was light and his eyes lighter, caramel irises that reminded her of cotton candy kisses and the wind rushing around them, carrying with it the sound of waves.

He wanted to turn once into again, then into now—he wanted to find her laughter uplifting and the brush of her fingertips in his hair soothing. He wanted to find her smile contagious and her silence troubling; he wanted to find himself in her embrace, in the wafting scent of her perfume and the press of her lips against his forehead.

He wanted her to want him.

And so he became what she wanted, what she already loved; his eyes darkened, irises churning, absorbing the mystery reflected. His smile became brief, teasing, a hint of amusement with undertones of sorrow, a standing contradiction to a laugh that was as thick and smooth as honey. He embraced the moon’s glow, beckoning the night closer, until it swept him up in a flurry of stardust and blood shot eyes. He kept his anger close to his heart, its heat lining each limb and bracing the curve of his vertebrae until its bend was nonexistent. He pulled her close and announced his love in the touch of his lips against the curve of her shoulder, in the fit of his body against hers, in lust-soaked skin and alcohol induced laughter. He forced his laughter to radiate, to swell inside of his chest until its escape was inevitable and brilliant. He drew back his anger, pealed the layer away and cast it aside to touch her with feather-light fingertips and lips stained with sugar.

But it was not enough.

She loved him, once.

Of that he was certain.

But she loved him in another.

Color blossomed across his cheeks, splotches of red and pink that fizzled out to burn his earlobes; his eyes darkened and his anger floated in wisps, dancing tendrils that shot from his fingertips and evoked movement.

He loved her, then.

He loved her when her lips were parted and short, startled breaths slid across her tongue. He loved her when her heart beat hard against her ribcage, a sharp rattle that announced itself in the thrumming vein beneath his hand. He loved her when her head echoed against the wall and confusion danced in her eyes, chocolate irises that were cut by a flash of panic, by a jolt of sudden clarity and overwhelming fear. He loved her when her eyes were downcast, body and mind closed in on itself, when everything she was rushed forward to barricade and protect what she could have been. He loved her when her hands refused to still, firm fingertips pressing against his knuckles, nails embedding themselves into his skin. He loved her when her body was trembling, skin glowing under a thin sheen of sweat, her eyes squeezed shut, turned into thin lines with dark eyelashes splayed against her cheeks.

He loved her—of that he was certain.

 


End file.
